


If You Must

by Miri1984



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-04 15:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 12,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20473121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984
Summary: A collection of kiss prompts, other prompts and short fics for Zolf and Wilde. Wilde Wednesdays will probably all end up in here at some point.





	1. Routine

Wilde called them all into his office for one final briefing before they left on their, Hamid privately thought to himself, extremely ill-advised trip across the water to get to Shoin’s island. At least, he told himself as he sat in a chair and watched Wilde carefully set aside whatever paperwork he was working on, it wasn’t as long a trip as the one across the channel. Zolf seemed confident enough, and Cel was practically vibrating with excitement. Azu, on the other hand, looked grey, even beneath her dark skin, and Hamid privately hoped she would take the potion Cel had offered her.

It couldn’t be worse than the channel crossing, Hamid kept telling himself, as Wilde spoke. Zolf was nodding and agreeing with whatever Wilde was saying but Hamid couldn’t shake the feeling of imminent doom. He was surprised when he felt a large hand engulf his, Azu squeezing it in reassurance. He smiled back at her and nodded.

At least she was still here.

As they stood up to leave Zolf moved around to Wilde’s chair and said something else to him that Hamid couldn’t catch, and he saw Wilde smile that strange, distorted smile, damaged by the scar on his face. He wondered again what had happened, who had hurt him but his musings were scattered when Wilde tilted his face a little in invitation and Zolf leaned down to brush his lips to Wilde’s cheek. 

Neither of them said anything further and Zolf moved out of the room, leaving Hamid and Azu and Cel all gaping at Wilde.

Wilde blinked up at them. “Are you… going to let Zolf go on his own then?” he asked.

“What…” Hamid started. “What just…” Wilde raised an eyebrow at him and Azu started to tug Hamid away. “Wait. Azu what…?”

Wilde waved them along. “Time is of the essence, Hamid,” he said. “Good luck and stay safe.”

Outside Zolf was waiting, arms crossed and foot tapping. “Come on then we ain’t got all day.”

Hamid glanced at Cel and Azu. Cel was grinning as though they’d won a bet and Azu had a soft, knowing smile on her face. Zolf didn’t seem fazed.

“Can someone please explain to me what just happened?”

“What?” Zolf said. “Hamid are you still asleep or somethin’?” 

“I’m beginning to think so!” Hamid said, voice rising in pitch. “What did you just…”

“Hamid wants to know why you kissed Wilde, Zolf.” Azu said.

Zolf stopped. Frowned. Opened his mouth. Then shut it.

“I… did?” he said.

“You just kissed Wilde on the cheek, like you _like_ him,” Cel said, voice gleeful. “Like it’s something you do _every day._ It was _adorable._ You guys are _adorable.”_

“Were you trying to keep it a secret, Zolf?” Azu said. “I know times are difficult, but you know you can trust us, don’t you?”

Zolf pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Oh,” he said. Hamid felt laughter bubbling up in his chest and stepped up to Zolf, grabbing one of his hands and squeezing it. 

“Are you happy, Zolf?” he asked.

Zolf blew air out his cheeks. “Well. Yeah. I guess so.”

Hamid threw his arms around him for a hug and Zolf awkwardly patted Hamid’s back. “That’s all that’s important,” Hamid said, muffled into Zolf’s breastplate, before he pulled back and looked up into Zolf’s eyes. His cheeks were bright pink, but he was smiling a little bit. “I do think, though, that perhaps all those romance novels have made you soft.”

“Could have used a little softening, though, right?” Zolf said and Hamid laughed.


	2. Did we win?

Cel meant well, they really did, meant better than most people Zolf had met over the years, but their constant reassurances that this was tested, that this would work, that they had found the solution didn’t help the knot of anxiety that sat in Zolf’s stomach as they made their way to where Wilde (not Wilde, not Wilde at the moment, no) was being kept.

He should never have let them persuade him not to kill Wilde. The uncertainty of what was to come was worse, far worse than an ending would have been. Zolf had dealt with loss enough times and come out the other side just fine.

_Not fine, never fine, there were only so many hits even he could take before he broke and the moment they’d seen the blue veins spreading under Wilde’s skin had almost been it and if Hamid and Azu and Cel hadn’t stopped him Zolf would have killed hope dead before it even had a chance to bloom…_

“We stopped it,” Hamid said, softly, by his elbow. “He’s going to be all right, Zolf. We know this is going to work.”

Zolf just nodded, tightly, Cel’s potion and Hamid’s magic was ready to work in tandem on the man who sat blankly in the cell where they had kept him the last few weeks, showing no animation, no warmth, nothing. It had hit Zolf like a punch to the gut, when he realised what it was about Wilde that had been so fascinating to all of them had nothing to do with his looks. Once the facade had dropped, once the… thing that he had become was uncovered, it had been as if his soul had simply been scooped out of his body, leaving nothing recognisable behind.

Azu’s hand on his shoulder should have been more comforting. “Hamid’s right, Zolf,” she said softly. “We know this is going to work.”

Her blind confidence had never wavered. Not like his. But he wasn’t going to lash out at her for keeping faith when he couldn’t. 

“Fine,” he said, shortly, as they made their way down to the cell.

Wilde not Wilde was lounging on the cot in a way that was both horribly familiar and… horrible. Zolf swallowed as Carter unlocked the cell and Barnes manhandled him out of it, Wilde not Wilde smiling that faint vacant smile that had barely shifted from his face the entire time he had been in their custody. Zolf felt bile rise at the back of his throat as they took him outside to the bath area and Hamid and Cel stepped forward.

“What’s this?” Wilde said, the faintest look of interest passing across his face, a shadow of personality that was no longer relevant or present, as they stripped him of his shirt. Zolf bit his lip, looking at the web of blue lines under Wilde’s skin, remembering when they had first started to spread.

He felt Azu’s hand on his shoulder again, and this time it did give him some comfort.

A little, any way.

“Time to wake up,” Hamid said, resolute and firm, raising his hands as Cel stepped forward with the potion in their hands.

Wilde’s head tilted to one side and his muscles strained, but Carter and Barnes held him firmly, and while Wilde could possibly have taken Carter in a fight there was no way he could struggle against the two of them. He turned his head away from the potion, but Cel grasped his jaw and forced it open, even as Hamid began the words of the incantation, weaving his hands in the air. Zolf saw Wilde’s throat constrict and he started to choke, but enough of the potion must have gone down, and Zolf could see the magic begin to interact. 

He stiffened (just like the others had) and his eyes rolled back into his head (just like the others had) and Barnes and Carter didn’t let him fall to the ground and injure himself, instead holding him upright as he dropped to his knees, shuddering as the magic worked its way through his body.

It took a minute or two for the spell to dissipate.

Zolf held his breath.

A moment later, the blue lines started to retreat, started to suck in on themselves. Wilde’s mouth opened and a thin sound of distress slipped out, high and alien and horrible. Zolf tried to take a step forward, but Azu held him back, even as Barnes and Carter kept hold of Wilde throughout the transformation.

There was a moment where Zolf thought it was going to be too much for him, a moment when Wilde’s neck corded and his back arched, a moment when he was certain they’d misjudged the dosage or Hamid had misspoken the spell and Wilde would die, thrashing and in pain, right in front of him. 

The moment passed and Wilde was left hanging between Carter and Barnes, gasping for breath, the blue veins purged from his skin.

Azu’s hand dropped from Zolf’s shoulder and he surged forward. Wilde was sweating and he looked haggard and worn, but he looked up as Zolf approached, blinking. 

“Gods,” he said, voice hoarse, but his face… his face. Zolf could see Oscar there again, could see amidst the exhaustion and the pain and the realisation the person he remembered. The person he… “Oh _gods_ Zolf, is that you?”

Zolf’s face was wet with tears as he sank to a knee in front of Oscar. “Yes,” he said. One of Wilde’s hands groped upwards, and clasped the back of Zolf’s head, unsteady and too warm on Zolf’s skin, pulling him in, then the other hand came up so Wilde was cupping Zolf’s face between them, eyes searching Zolf’s with desperation and hope.

“Really,” he said, “is it _really_ you?”

Zolf kissed him, open mouthed and greedy. He felt hollowed out, spent with grief and wildly fluctuating hope, stretched so thin and worn that it was a miracle that he hadn’t broken, but this was_ Oscar, _he was _back,_ and perhaps the world was in with a chance after all.

_“Gods,_ I’ve missed you,” he breathed against Oscar’s lips when they finally parted. Oscar’s hand carded up and through Zolf’s hair, gripping tightly and not letting him pull back. 

“Did we win?” he asked hoarsely, and Zolf smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah I think we did.”


	3. Interuptions

The thing about Oscar Wilde, (one of the many, many,  _ many  _ things, Zolf supposed) was that he was  _ good  _ at this. Zolf wasn’t surprised about that, no matter that he hadn’t heard of the man before he’d met him in Hamid’s apartment subsequent rumours and gossip and well… the actions of the man himself, had made it pretty clear there were certain skill sets he’d spent more time developing than Zolf had over the years.

Zolf could sail a driftwood boat across the English channel in the middle of a storm  _ without  _ drowning his friends.

Oscar Wilde? Well. Oscar Wilde could  _ kiss. _

Zolf liked it more than he wanted to admit. However he  _ did _ spend indeterminate amounts of time every day or so trapped against a wall, or waylaid on the way to the kitchen, or with a lapful of Oscar in the morning stopping him from getting out of bed and getting  _ on with saving the gods-cursed world Oscar…  _ More time than someone who didn’t enjoy it would. Definitely.

At Zolf’s protests Oscar would pull back and grin that lopsided grin that Zolf still had trouble admitting made him soften and tug on Zolf’s beard and let him get on with things, because they both knew that of the two of them Oscar was the one who  _ craved  _ physical contact, the one who would wilt like a spring flower without it. For Zolf, there was comfort in touch, reassurance in the solid reality of Oscar in his arms and security in the knowledge of Oscar’s regard. They were all things that had made the past few months in Japan bearable. Oscar’s reactions, though, were more visceral - and Zolf found he could appreciate that as well, in his own way.

And of course it wasn’t possible that he’d learn nothing from Oscar during all of this, not when he was such an enthusiastic teacher.

Perhaps they should have closed Oscar’s office door, before Zolf had allowed himself to be pulled into the gap between Oscar’s thighs and held there while he was thoroughly kissed, but they’d grown less cautious lately, because when Barnes cleared his throat it was loudly enough for Zolf to think that perhaps it hadn’t been the first time he’d tried to catch their attention. Zolf pulled back from Oscar and smoothed a hand down his beard, embarrassed, but also unable to stop a surge of smug satisfaction when Oscar, eyes still closed and lips parted, attempted to lean forward enough to recapture Zolf’s lips.

Zolf gently booped Oscar on the nose and Oscar’s eyes fluttered open. Zolf jerked his head towards the doorway and Oscar glanced that way to see Barnes, face flushed pink with embarrassment and arms crossed over his chest, waiting. 

Oscar loosened the grip he had on Zolf immediately and smoothed a hand through his hair while Zolf took a sharp step out of Oscar’s reach and clasped his own hands behind his back.

“Yes Barnes?” Oscar said, and Zolf felt another surge of satisfaction when he heard the roughness in his voice.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Barnes said.

Oscar’s eyebrow raised and Zolf had to repress a chuckle. “What on earth makes you think you were interrupting?” he said. Barnes glanced at Zolf, who shrugged and smirked.

“We’re doing that then, are we?”

“What?”

Barnes rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said, reaching into his jacket to pull out whatever message he had to deliver. 

Zolf glanced back at Oscar, to see him eyeing Zolf with a mixture of reprimand and promise, dark eyes slitted and lips still red. 

Zolf winked.


	4. The Right Height

Oscar wasn’t speciest in any sense of the word (misunderstandings with Grizzop notwithstanding). He saw beauty in everything, and pretty much everyone. This had lead him to being accused of having terrible taste more than once. Zolf had joked at one point that if Oscar could find something to like in Bertie him being attracted to Zolf proved absolutely nothing about Zolf’s inherent worth.

Zolf didn’t really get how one could indulge in the physical divorced from the intellectual, although thinking back on Bertie (something that Oscar didn’t tend to do often, for a variety of reasons) there had been intellect at play as well. 

One could, for example, coax information out of a willing and enthusiastic sexual partner far more easily than one could draw out a grumpy dwarf intent on drowning you.

Also, Bertie was attractive for a given value of attractive. Or had been. Until he died.

The point was, that Oscar had absolutely nothing against inter-species relations and was actually very enthusiastic about discovering the differences and nuances of build, and stamina, and flexibility. He’d amassed a lot of data, over the years, from a variety of different sources. 

Zolf was solid and warm and  _ strong  _ and Oscar enjoyed those things, enjoyed being moved where Zolf wanted him, the press of wide, calloused fingers against his skin.

Zolf was, however, and there was no delicate way to put this,  _ short. _

Oscar had limited experience with women of any species, his own preferences having been established firmly in his early teens, but he knew intellectually that a two foot height difference wasn’t unheard of. It was an inconvenience, but it was one they worked around. Oscar sat in a chair or on the bed or they lay down or limited themselves to brief pecks on whichever part of the other was within reach.

It wasn’t as though they were making out publicly in the taproom of the inn. At least. Not any more.

“You are too bloody  _ tall,”  _ Zolf grumbled, having come up to Oscar’s room to negotiate him out of staying up far too late to work  _ again.  _ There was a dance they performed, most nights, where Oscar would see how long it took for Zolf to mother him. It had been a gratifyingly short amount of time tonight - barely past midnight in fact - before Zolf stomped into the reading room in nothing but his pants, metal feet clicking on the wooden floor in a cadence that Oscar new better than the rhythm of his own breath, and ordered him to get up and go to bed. Oscar had acquiesced with a minimum of fuss (he  _ was  _ quite tired, and Zolf’s broad, bare chest, the dark ink of his tattoos stark against the pallor of his skin, was the perfect height on which to pillow a weary head) and accepted the hand Zolf offered him to stand up, but Zolf had made a disgruntled noise as he did so which had precipitated the comment about Oscar’s height.

Oscar laughed, straightening his back to emphasise the point, while Zolf glared up at him. “On the other hand,” Oscar said, “you, my love, are  _ precisely _ the correct height.”

There was a complicated sound from Zolf’s prosthetics as he rocked up onto his toes, one arm reaching up to pull Oscar’s head down. Oscar hadn’t been expecting it and their lips crashed together with a little more violence than customary, and Zolf nearly overbalanced backwards. Oscar had quicker reflexes than most people gave him credit for, and slung an arm around Zolf’s shoulders, tipping their combined weight backwards so instead of falling forwards and onto the floor, Oscar’s backside thumped firmly against his desk and Zolf ended up half sprawled over Oscar while they kissed, messily and awkwardly and gloriously for a few seconds before Oscar’s laughter overtook him.

“Prat,” Zolf muttered into his shirt, shifting until he was at least supporting his own weight again, although he made no move to back away and made a pleased sound as Oscar tangled his hand in Zolf’s hair, carding through it.

“So you keep telling me,” he said.


	5. As We Are

Oscar’s hand found his, as they looked out at the ocean, at the roiling, boiling mass of it. The metal tentacles should have made some sort of sound, but they were too far away and the pelting, driving rain fell too hard on the earth and trees around them for him to make it out even should they have been close enough.

Oscar didn’t speak. They had their contingency plan, but they waited, because it was difficult to let go of hope even now when every other hope had been crushed.

What even would he have said that they hadn’t said already?

_ Better we go as we are.  _

He would do anything not to lose himself, not to lose what they were to each other. 

They had so little time left.

Oscar turned to him, lacing his fingers through the hand that he held, and hunkered down to one knee so they were almost of a height, used his other hand to reach up and tangle in Zolf’s hair. 

_ Better to go as we are. _

Zolf cupped his scarred cheek, tracing a pattern on the cheekbone with his thumb, catching a tear that could have been mistaken for rain if he’d known the man any less.

_ Better to go as we are. _

Zolf pressed his lips to Oscar’s, shutting his eyes against the horror of what was happening at sea. Oscar’s whole body loosened as he kissed Zolf back with all the passion and feeling of months on the edge, letting go of the reasons this wasn’t a good idea, the weight of their responsibilities, the constant, burning, punishing need to  _ do more fix this stop this save us _ finally sucked away by the inevitability of the end.

_ Better to go as we are. _

_ Together. _


	6. Not You

Oscar has never felt more hollowed out and tired. The past few weeks are like some kind of fever dream and he can remember very little of substance, as though he’d spent it trapped in a small room with no windows. There had been flashes of… something. A voice here. A touch there. But for the most part Oscar had been unconscious. At least, that’s what he tells himself, his mind shying away from examining exactly what the veins, the virus had done to him,  _ had made him do. _

“You need rest,” Zolf says, and Oscar would have been embarrassed at how desperately he clutches Zolf’s arm once, how urgent it is for Zolf not to stop touching him, reassuring him he’s real.

Oscar tries to get to his feet on his own, but stumbles against Zolf, who hooks an arm around Oscar’s waist and helps him to steadiness. Oscar hasn’t even glanced around at the others yet, and when he does, when he sees Hamid, standing straight and proud with the remnants of his magic fading around him, sees Azu, her eyes soft and warm and welcoming, sees Cel, arms crossed over their chest and a broad grin of triumph on their face, he feels his eyes, already full and blurred, spill over in something akin to relief.

Hamid’s face drops and he steps forward. “It’s good to have you back, Oscar,” he says, and Azu nods, and Cel’s grin widens, if that’s even possible.

“Yes,” Azu says, and she moves forward, and Oscar welcomes the hug she gives him, as warm and comforting as he’d always imagined it would be, back when he couldn’t show the weakness that throbbed through all of his limbs, couldn’t admit to the weariness, couldn’t afford to be human enough to acknowledge what he needed.

“Good to be back,” he says, voice hoarse. 

He sees Hamid give Zolf a look, and a nod, and then Hamid takes Oscar’s hand and squeezes it. 

“Take some time, Oscar,” he says. 

“We need to get to Prague,” Oscar says. “Grizzop and Sasha…”

“We’ve made arrangements,” Hamid says, firmly. “But we’re not going anywhere for at least a day. Take some  _ time.” _

Hamid steps out of the way and Oscar allows himself to be lead to the room he used to share with Zolf, before the veins, before the darkness and confinement.

In the doorway Oscar gets a flash of… something… something he said when he wasn’t himself, something he did…

He stumbles. “Oh gods,” he breathes. “Gods Zolf did I hurt…”

He hears Zolf suck in a breath, a breath that shakes, and that tells him more than enough. More tears spill, Oscar utterly incapable of stopping them.

“Don’t,” Zolf says. “It wasn’t you.”

“I can… I can remember things…”

Zolf moves Oscar to the bed and sits him down, firmly, hands still on Oscar’s shoulders. “It wasn’t you,” Zolf says again. Oscar nods, drawing in his own shaking breath. It wasn’t him. But he can remember it, it’s just out of his reach, the shape of the things he said, what he did and he could just… reach for it if he…

Zolf’s hands come up and cup his face, tilting it so he is looking directly into Oscar’s eyes, thumbs brushing away the tears that are still falling. “Oscar don’t do this. It  _ wasn’t you.” _

“I…”

Zolf leans forward and kisses him, slow and thorough, hands still gently cupping his face. Oscar hears what might have been a whimper escape him, muffled by Zolf’s mouth, swallowed by him. It turns into a moan of need for  _ this,  _ for  _ Zolf,  _ for  _ them  _ and Zolf’s hands slide around so they are tangled in Oscar’s hair and Oscar shifts forward so he can wrap his arms around Zolf and pull him closer, closer, close enough that they’ll never need to let go.

They part and Zolf cradles Oscar’s head against him, Oscar letting out a breath and closing his eyes. “Shhh,” Zolf murmurs. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

Oscar breathes in Zolf’s scent, hears the beat of his heart against his ear, the slow, steady thump a thread that ties him to  _ this _ reality, this present. 

He starts to believe that it might be true.


	7. Jealous

He doesn’t see Zolf for most of the week. Oh there is the daily check, where he stands and watches the anger in Azu’s eyes, the soft hurt in Hamid’s, as he runs his own eyes over them critically, searching for the veins he is certain will come (because if he isn’t certain they will come, when they do come he will be heartbroken and Zolf...)

Zolf sleeps down there and Oscar feels how empty the bed is and curses himself for having gotten used to that comfort. He’d known it would hurt, eventually. But he’d reasoned it was worth it. He’d been selfish, and now he was going to have to send them all away even if they didn’t turn out to be monsters and he’ll…

...keep going. 

Somehow.

He is sitting in his office, it’s late and he should really go to bed but his thoughts keep drifting downwards, to Zolf sitting in his chair, without the use of his legs in the anti-magic field. To what is sitting in the cell. He finds he is idly stroking the skin of his scar and his gut is roiling with an unfamiliar emotion, one that he can’t pin down.

“Brooding?” Zolf is in the doorway, arms crossed.

“Shouldn’t you be watching?” Oscar says, more roughly than he should. This isn’t Zolf’s fault. None of this is Zolf’s fault so why does he…?

“They’re asleep and I came up to get something to eat,” Zolf is frowning at him. Oscar can feel his lips thin as that unfamiliar feeling keeps crowding behind his lips.

_ Jealous. You’re jealous of him. Of them. _

“Oscar what’s going on?” Zolf says, gently, although the frown is still there. Oscar is almost dumbfounded, realising what has been bothering him since the message from Curie, understanding exactly what it is that has him sniping at the one person about whose opinion he gives a damn.

He mutters a curse under his breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Don’t… don’t mind me.” He looks back down at the papers on his desk. None of them mean anything to him right now and he has to resist the urge to snarl and push them to the floor.

_ Gods. _

He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Zolf, head tilted and eyebrow raised. 

Before he even realises what he’s doing he’s reached up and grasped Zolf by the collar, pulling him down roughly to claim his mouth. 

It’s not how they usually do things. There’s an unspoken rule, one that Oscar has imposed upon himself, he will readily admit, that he’ll do his best not to overwhelm Zolf, that he won’t be the Oscar he used to be in London, in Paris, not with this, not when it means something  _ different  _ to the daliances and intrigues that were so much a part of who he was before the world went wrong.

But Zolf doesn’t protest, doesn’t pull back, lets himself be moved so he’s practically in Oscar’s lap as he devours him, mouth open, greedy and hungry and  _ angry. _

When he finally pulls back Zolf’s mouth is red and his cheeks are flushed and he still has one eyebrow raised, although his breath is coming a little quicker. 

“Mmm,” Zolf says. “Want to tell me what that was about?” He has one hand cupped around Oscar’s neck, fingers gently tugging on the curls of hair at its nape, and Oscar’s lips are tingling and his skin is humming with need.

“I don’t,” Oscar says, and even he has to acknowledge that his voice sounds sulky.

“You’re going to any way, though, right?” They don’t keep secrets from each other. Another unspoken rule. 

Oscar sucks his lip between his teeth. “I miss you,” he says, and he sees Zolf’s mouth twist. “Shut up.”

The twist becomes a full smile and Zolf leans forward and gently presses his lips to Oscar’s forehead. Oscar grumbles.

“I’m right here,” he says.

“I know,” Oscar replies.  _ But you’ll be gone eventually and I can’t go with you. _

Zolf kisses his temple and continues to move his hand in gentle sweeping touches on Oscar’s neck, until Oscar feels some of the tension drain out of him, some of the resentment flow away. He breathes in deep, filling his nose with Zolf’s scent - woodsmoke and teriyaki sauce and sandalwood soap. Home.

“You better get back down to them,” he says, finally.

Zolf kisses the top of his head. Pulls out of Oscar’s hold (which was still tighter than it should have been). Grasps one of Oscar’s hands and puts it to his lips. “Get some sleep, Oscar,” he says.

Oscar watches him leave. Brushes his hand over his scar again. Takes a deep breath.

Lets it go.


	8. Fussing

Zolf fusses over them like a mother hen. Oscar can understand it. Carter and Barnes don’t really count as company these days, the bad blood between Zolf and Barnes had never entirely faded and Howard was… well. Howard was  _ Howard  _ and the less said about or to him the better. So it had just been the two of them until now.

He sits in the reading room and gives them space. The sounds of argument from the kitchen almost make him smile (from the Japanese words he can catch Zolf is almost certainly crimping wrong) but then the reality of it comes down on him again, that with Hamid and Azu here  _ without Sasha or Grizzop  _ they had no more excuses, no more reasons for delay.

Zolf brings him tea. Oscar accepts it, gratefully enough, expecting Zolf to leave again, continue to fuss over someone other than him for a change, but he doesn’t. He stands in front of Oscar’s chair and looks at him.

“What?” Oscar says, finally, wearily.

Zolf leans forward and brushes his lips against Oscar’s, soft and light, then pulls back. “I love you,” he murmurs, before kissing him again, and Oscar doesn’t have a lot of time to process that, half of his brain is focused on the kiss, the other is worried that Azu or Hamid will walk in on them (and wouldn’t that be fun to try to explain) and still more of him is carefully not spilling the tea in his hand as Zolf gently and thoroughly kisses him, chasing worry and jealousy away with lips that have no right to be so clever, so  _ good  _ at this.

When Zolf pulls back Oscar is still clutching the tea in one hand and the arm of the chair in the other.

“And what precisely do you want me to do with that information?” Oscar says, going for exasperation. 

It comes out sounding fond.

“Try to remember it,” Zolf says, and brushes a knuckle across Oscar’s cheek. “When you’re brooding.”

Oscar purses his lips, then nods. Zolf gives him a cheeky grin and moves off. Oscar knows this is probably the last chance they’ll have to talk freely, before Hamid and Azu are ready, before the plan will have to begin in earnest, but Zolf is almost out the door when Oscar finally manages to call out.

“Zolf,” he says, probably too quietly, but Zolf hears, and Zolf turns and Zolf’s eyebrow is raised. Oscar swallows. 

“I love you too.” 

“Of course you do,” Zolf says. “I’m fucking delightful.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, and sips his perfectly brewed tea.


	9. Don't Want

Howard knows for a fact they don’t even know they’re doing it.

He might have had a troubled childhood - distant parents and frequent absences plagued him like most of the middle aristocracy - but he had been around a few relatively normal couples in his time. His uncle and aunt, for example, had the kind of easy familiarity and fondness that Howard had always assumed was the end point of all stable relationships.  _ Deathly dull,  _ was what Howard had thought to himself, watching them interact. Of course, ten years ago deathly dull had a lot less appeal than it does now.

These days Howard feels a small, sharp pang of jealousy, when he walks into a room and sees Oscar giving that soft, fond smile to Zolf, or watches as Zolf squeezes Oscar’s hand in passing in silent reassurance, or when Zolf presents his cheek so that Oscar can lean down two full feet to kiss it.

It’s not _ for _ them precisely. Oscar is an objectively beautiful man, even with the scar, and casual flirting with him had always been fun, but since the collapse he’s been someone entirely different and frankly, a lot more boring. Zolf well… there is something fascinating about someone who has lived so much life, even if Howard did prefer to look up to his partners. He can see what they see in each other, in any case. And Howard doesn’t want _ that.  _

Doesn’t want the soft enquiries after each other’s sleep, the gentle setting of the tea cups on desks, the shared, knowing smiles, or the more painful understanding of those they have lost.

Howard definitely does not need that. 

No.


	10. Relief

Oscar runs his eyes over them all hungrily when they return, noting the new injuries, the hardships they’ve been through. He looks at the all in turn, starting with Cel, ending with Zolf, checking to be certain they have all the limbs that they left with, heart in his throat from far too many hours worry.

They look exhausted, but that’s to be expected. Hamid looks… amused. Which isn’t.

Zolf catches sight of him and gives him an open, relieved smile and Oscar sees that Azu looks amused as well. Cel. Cel looks positively lascivious.

“What’s gotten into you all?” Oscar asks, even as Hamid gently pushes Zolf forward a step. Zolf rolls his eyes and comes forward, reaching out a hand to take Oscar’s. Relieved as he is at the contact, Oscar raises a skeptical eyebrow at Zolf. They had agreed to keep the relationship private. They had agreed that any information about what precisely they meant to each other was a potential weapon. “Zolf?”

Zolf reaches up and tangles his hand in the collar of Oscar’s shirt, tugging him slightly. “Zolf what?”

“We know about you two,” Hamid says, and he sounds  _ delighted.  _ Azu hums in agreement. 

“Yes, Wilde. We know.”

“How…”

Cel claps their hands together. “Oh he didn’t realise  _ either  _ you two are just so precious.”

Zolf is just looking at him. “Do you remember what you did, just before we left on the mission?” Zolf says.

“Briefed you,” Oscar says and Zolf shuts his eyes and draws in a breath. 

“Do you remember what  _ I  _ did, just before we left on the mission?”

Oscar has been very busy since coming to Japan, and hasn’t slept since they left for Shoin’s island for worry, but for Zolf’s sake he casts back and tries to remember the exact circumstances under which the party had left him, at his desk in the reading room, having just…

...having just…

“Ah,” he looks down at Zolf, who shrugs. 

“Under the circumstances,” Zolf says. “They’ve convinced me I need a welcome home kiss.”

“One that we can see, please,” Hamid pipes up. “It’s not as if you’ve ever been shy about that sort of thing, Oscar.”

Oscar looks over Zolf’s head at Hamid and scowls dramatically. “Allow for time and circumstance to change a man, Hamid,” he says.

“Demonstrably!” Hamid says, and he’s obviously holding back a laugh. “But Cel and I have a little wager on this and so…” he waves a hand and Oscar, exhausted and weak with relief at having Zolf back, whole and unharmed, laughs, strikes a pose and leans down to kiss Zolf with the dramatic flair of his London days. 

No one actually kisses particularly well in public but there is a sweetness to this, an acknowledgement. When he pulls back Zolf is smiling up at him and he can hear Azu and Cel and Hamid in the background applauding.

“Something worthy of a Harrison Campbell novel?” Oscar says, softly enough that only Zolf can hear.

“Better,” Zolf says, brushing Oscar’s cheek with a knuckle, then he turns his head to look back at the others. “I hope you ingrates are satisfied.”

“It...  _ mostly  _ makes up for having to walk across the bottom of the ocean,” Hamid says, then steps forward to squeeze Oscar’s arm. “I’m glad you’re looking after each other.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Oscar says. “I’d hardly like to be on the wrong side of a dragon. Shall we get everyone something to eat?”

“Oh gods yes,” Hamid says, over the sound of Cel’s enthusiastic agreement in several different languages. Zolf and Cel and Hamid move off towards the inn and Oscar is left looking at Azu, who has a soft smile on her face.

“Aphrodite approves, I take it?” Oscar says.

_ “I  _ approve, Wilde,” she says. 

He grins at her. “Far more important, in my eyes,” he says, and motions for her to follow him inside.

They’re all tired, after all.


	11. Chapter 11

Oscar adores the gossip column of the Times. He used to contribute to it regularly, under a pseudonym mostly, but these days whenever they are in London he likes to read it to Zolf over breakfast. Something of a tradition, one of a few they’ve established in the months since they’d stopped the end of the world. It took a little while, for Oscar’s former colleagues to reach the heady heights of true gossip - with half the aristocracy missing or in recovery from being possessed it had taken society a little while to get back on the rails.

But these days the columns are at least vaguely amusing and Oscar runs his eyes over it this spring morning with the comfort of familiarity.

Until he sees a familiar name.

“What’s the Duke of York up to these days?” Zolf asks around a mouthful of bacon. “Edward seemed to think he was going to try to marry him off again.”

Oscar scowls as he reads, fingers crumpling the edges of the paper. 

“Oscar?” Zolf uses his knife to push the paper down enough that he can see Oscar over it, and Oscar makes a half hearted attempt to close the paper and set it aside. Zolf, however, is too fast for him, and snatches it out of his hands.

“Don’t… don’t read it,” Oscar says.

Zolf cocks an eyebrow. Of course  _ that  _ isn’t going to work on him. The man would immediately jump off a building if someone told him not to do it. Especially if that someone was Oscar.

Zolf begins to read aloud. The article sounds even worse in Zolf’s soft, lilting accent, although Zolf himself seems nothing other than amused at its contents.  _ “In news closer to our homes and hearts, celebrated and notably, long time absent playwright and socialite, Oscar Wilde, has returned to London for the first time since our most recent period of troubles. Not on his own, however, as sources close to the chronicler attest to the fact that our former friend has a gentleman companion...” _

“Reginald bloody Brooks,” Oscar mutters. “Should stick to writing about cricket.” 

“The article doesn’t have a name on it, actually.”

“I recognise his insufferable style,” Oscar says, trying to reach for the paper again. Zolf grins at him and snatches it out of the way. 

_ “Wilde’s companion is rather shorter than one might expect, given his reputation, but we are pleased to report the two seem ensconced in what could only be described as domestic bliss in their apartments in Chelsea…  _ Domestic fucking bliss, eh?”

“Please just put it down.”

_ “Rumour on the street is that there will be an announcement coming from Chelsea some time later in the week. One can only speculate on the guest list for such an event. Oscar’s absence from our lives and hearts these past two years could potentially be redeemed with a large enough and extravagant enough party… _ Do they want us to get  _ married?”  _ Oscar succeeds in snatching the paper out of Zolf’s hands and balls it up throwing it into the fire. 

“Enough of that,” Oscar says. 

“Gossip’s all fine unless it’s about you, huh?” Zolf says.

“Shorter than one might expect. Bloody cheek of the man,” Oscar knows he’s fuming, is probably taking this out of proportion, but the fact that Brooks and the others seem to think it’s all right to pry into his personal life is…

Oscar lets out a huff of breath. Is to be expected. Of course. There is a reason they’re not staying in London for long. 

Zolf gets up and moves to Oscar’s chair. “That really bothered you?”

“Oh, you could tell?” Oscar replies, not bothering to keep the sulk out of his tone, and Zolf sinks his fingers into Oscar’s hair, carding through it in a familiar gesture, one that he knows Oscar loves, one that gives him comfort and reminds him of everything they have, everything that’s changed. He resists the urge to curl upwards into Zolf’s touch like a cat, but does let out an involuntary sigh of pleasure at the touch.

“It’s just words,” Zolf says. “I can’t believe they think we’re going to get married though.”

“You don’t want to?” Oscar says, and he’s only half teasing.

“In public? Nah. I mean I’d marry you, no question, but it seems like a lot of bother just to get some paperwork.”

Oscar can’t see Zolf’s face, but feels his breath hitch. He turns in his chair, reaches up to grasp both of Zolf’s hands in his. Brings them to his lips and kisses them. “You  _ would  _ marry me then?”

Zolf’s eyes are piercing and green and soft at the edges as he looks at Oscar. “I just said I would. We can go down to the temple of Aphrodite and do it right now if you like, give the gossip columnists something better to talk about.”

“Azu would never forgive us if she didn’t get to officiate.”

“Just as long as we don’t do it in the temple of Poseidon.”

Zolf gently presses his lips to Oscar’s forehead, then his lips, a brief brush at first, then a deeper, more thorough exploration that leaves Oscar a little breathless. “Mmmm,” he says when Zolf pulls back. “Not exactly how I’d thought about proposing, but I suppose it’ll work, if you’re sure you really want to do it.”

_ “I _ do,” Zolf says. “Sounds like you’re getting cold feet though.”

“Says the man whose feet are made out of metal.”

Zolf kisses him again, probably to get him to shut up. It works. And when they’re done Oscar will go to his writing desk to draft a letter to a certain paladin of Aphrodite. 

The thought makes him smile. Perhaps he should be grateful to Brooks, after all.


	12. Obvious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the kobold can tell.

Hamid has seen hints, over the past week, the occasional look, between Zolf and Wilde, that one moment where Wilde almost said… something, the indrawn breath from Zolf when Wilde asked if they needed anything.

Once, Hamid had asked if Oscar was okay.

Oscar had glanced, just for a second, at Zolf, and Hamid wouldn’t have ever said he  _ knew  _ Oscar Wilde. He could predict him. He could anticipate him. But he’d never sat down and shared time with the man, never spent more than a few minutes in his company discussing anything other than work, the mission, the world… but he knew that  _ look  _ he’d seen that  _ look  _ a hundred times on different faces over the years, had that moment of  _ there is something I can use  _ that moment of  _ oh gods I hope Gideon doesn’t see  _ that moment of  _ maybe those two crazy kids can make it work. _

He looks at Azu. She may be cut off from her Goddess here, but Aphrodite is always with her, the soft touches and gentle words she gives him when he needs it, the unwavering, steady regard. She meets his eyes and gives him the smallest of nods. Of course she can recognise it, the same as Hamid can.

It’s not a surprise for anyone when the cage door opens and Zolf hobbles forwards and Wilde tuts and grabs his hand for support (his and Zolf’s) and Zolf’s other arm completes the embrace and they stand for a full minute, wrapped around each other, breathing deeply. When they break apart Zolf stammers something and Hamid just pats him on the arm.

“We know,” he says, and smiles at Wilde too, who rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Impossible not to,” Cel agrees as they walk past them to the stairs.

“Really, quite obvious,” Azu says, and Hamid glances at the only remaining person in the room.

“Even Skraak could see,” comes a small voice, speaking draconic, and Hamid does his best not to laugh.


	13. Can't Stay

Grizzop checks his gear, runs his hands over the curve of his bow, tightens the straps on his armor, flicks his ears (one of them with its new ring, the one Oscar gave him, the weight of it strange and comforting) and shoulders his pack. It’s good to be back on the hunt. Good to have a clear goal and a purpose and the prospect of the ground under his feet and the smell of the forest in his nose.

This end of the world thing took up far too much of his time. Now things are simple again. He has a home, and a job, and right now, a criminal to track.

“Oh, before you go,” Oscar appears in the doorway, Zolf behind him, a wrapped package in his hands. Grizzop quashes down irritation and turns. It’s hard to stay angry at Wilde, (although Artemis knows it’s easy to  _ get  _ that way). 

“What?”

Oscar smirks, and hands the package over. “Zolf baked,” he said. “Pretzels.” 

“They’ll stay fresh a few days,” Zolf says. “Give you something more fun to chew on than hardtack and jerky.”

Grizzop takes the package, then realises he’ll have to take his pack off to put it inside, and gives the package back, starting to fumble with the straps.

“Here,” Oscar says, and gently turns him around. “Let me.”

“You’ll put it in wrong…” Grizzop starts but Oscar has already undone the flap and Grizzop can feel the weight change slightly as the gift is put inside. He’ll have to check, later, of course, make sure it’s not going to squash or fall out when he’s running but for now it’s secure enough. 

He expects Oscar to turn back, now, to go inside with Zolf so they can continue living their slow human-and-dwarf lives that have far too much sitting still and quiet contemplation and gentle conversation for Grizzop to bear for long.

Instead, Oscar’s arms come around him from behind and he feels him press a kiss to the top of Grizzop’s head. 

“Take care, love,” he says. 

Grizzop’s insides twist and he feels his cheeks heat up and he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He can feel Oscar’s hair tickle against his ears as the man stands upright again after giving him a gentle squeeze and he turns to look up at him. 

It’s too quiet here. It’s too still and stagnant and he needs to be on the move, on the hunt, he can’t stay, he can’t insert himself into that kind of life for long. 

He forces a smile - a gentle one, with fewer than normal teeth. “You know me,” he says. 

Oscar’s eyes are soft and fond. “Yes,” he says. “We do.”

Grizzop nods, then turns, his feet itching to run, to hunt, to chase.

He can’t stay for long.

But for a little while. Every now and then.


	14. Cannot Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift fic for the beautiful Bittercape whose birthday it was this week. Happiest of days to you, Bits, you're amazing and lovely and deserve all the nice things <3.

There is a point where he can’t not. 

It happens more often than Oscar would ever admit, but Zolf is so… carefree with his body now, so open. And Oscar knows it’s because he feels comfortable, now at least (there was a time when it came from carefully learned indifference, but Oscar has, he thinks, beaten the worst of that out of him, with growls of attraction and hugs and licks and affirmation and love and…. )

Well. Now Zolf is happy enough to walk through their house naked. And Oscar would never ever, EVER do anything to stop him from that, except that…

He sees the slope of his shoulders…

He sees the curve of his arse,..

He sees the patterns of ink and scars over his skin…

He sees the dusting of white hair over his chest, his groin, his thighs…

Fuck, he sees Zolf, he sees the kindness in his eyes and the curve of his lips and he can’t… 

He can’t…

Zolf makes a “whoomph” sound as Oscar lands on his back, but Ocar doesn’t care as he smooths his hands over Zolf’s front, feeling the plains of his chest and gripping the circle of flesh around his middle and sinking his teeth into the meat of his shoulder. Zolf gives another surprised cry.

“What the fuck is this for?”

Oscar doesn’t answer at first, just buries his nose between Zolf’s neck and shoulder and breathes. He catches the skin there with his lips and a slight touch of teeth and a frankly, obscene noise emerges from where his lips join with Zolf’s flesh and Zolf starts to laugh, high and delighted and astonished.

“You’re a goddamn cat, Oscar fucking Wilde.”

Oscar rubs his face against Zolf’s neck, nips at him again, then lets out a low rumble, as close as he can manage to a purr. “I love you,” he breathes into skin and scent and life and  _ Zolf _ .

Zolf’s shoulders shake a little in more helpless laughter, before a strong, wide hand pulls Oscar’s face around to his.

“And I love you, you soppy bastard.”


	15. A Question of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azu is worried about Zolf, and she thinks that Wilde is too. Getting him to admit it is another thing entirely.

Azu tried. She tried so very hard to get through to him, but Zolf was still closed off and snappish and Hamid was unwilling to talk about it with her. “He’s always been like this,” was all she could get out of him, and Hamid had his own problems, and she didn’t like to pry or press.

On the ride to Hiroshima she watched the straight line of Zolf’s back. Every now and then he would glance back at her, and there was knowledge in his green eyes, of what she would like to do. Knowledge, and a warning.

He was an adult. He could look after himself. There was no way she could break through his shell until he wanted her to and she didn’t want to abuse the burgeoning trust between them.

But it  _ hurt.  _ It hurt to see him shut off like this. And she knew it wasn’t healthy.

The second night on the road, at camp, she was handing out food to Wilde and she noticed his gaze was fixed on Zolf, chin cupped in one hand, leaning on his knee. The flash of his shackles caught the firelight, and that was something else she needed to talk to him about, but there was something in the darkness of Wilde’s gaze, something more open than she’d seen from him since they’d come back from Rome.

“You’re worried about him,” she said, handing him a steaming bowl of stew. 

Wilde blinked, and looked back to her, expression immediately changing, shutting off into something far more performative, far more Wilde. “Oh. Hello Azu,” He took the bowl from her, long fingers briefly brushing hers. He poked at it with his spoon, apparently determined to ignore her question.

“I am too,” she said, settling beside him without asking first. Wilde was good at avoiding questions and conversations, but Azu was patient, and direct.

“You’re what?” Wilde said.

“I’m worried. About Zolf. And so are you.”

“What makes you think that?”

Azu let out a sigh. “You don’t have to pretend with us any more,” she said. “I think current circumstances warrant at least a  _ little  _ more trust between us, don’ t you?” Wilde took a delicate mouthful of stew and chewed, looking at her, and Azu felt a brief surge of resentment.  _ “Do  _ you trust us?”

He set the spoon down and swallowed. “Of course I do,” he said.

“But you trust Zolf more.”   
“It’s a question of length of acquaintance,” he said. “I’ve known Zolf for a lot longer, comparatively. And I’m used to his… quirks.”

“I’m not,” Azu said. “And neither is Hamid, really. Or at least if he’s used to them he handles them very badly.”

“To be honest the two of them have always butted heads,” Wilde said, and there was a small smile of fondness there, that made Azu warm to him a little. “Zolf always said that he found Hamid difficult. They come from very different backgrounds.” He took another mouthful, and Azu had to remind herself that this was what Wilde was  _ good  _ at. Deflection. Misdirection. Obfuscation.

“Wilde you’re avoiding my question,” she said. 

He grinned at that. “I am,” he said. “Are you going to push it?”

She smiled back. “I am. I might not know Zolf very well but I do know Hamid and…”

“...And?”

“And I like to think  _ we _ are friends.”

Wilde blinked. “You and me, Azu?”

“You don’t think so?”

He tilted his head. “There hasn’t been a great deal of time for friendships, these last years.”

That wasn’t a no. But she was conscious of the fact that it wasn’t a yes, either.

“But you’re friends with Zolf. You care about him.”

If Azu had been less observant, if she hadn’t been able to see clearly in the darkness, if she hadn’t been explicitly looking for his reaction, she might have missed the slight spasm around Wilde’s eyes at that. The clenching of his fingers around his spoon. The miniscule tightening across his shoulders. 

“We’re partners,” he said, and Azu raised an eyebrow. “Yes fine. We’re friends. And yes, I worry. He was hit very hard by the news that Hamid and Sasha were lost. And now with Sasha’s letter…”

“He blames himself.”

Wilde let out a sigh. “For most things, yes. A personality trait that the two of us share.”

Azu reached out and gently touched Wilde’s arm. “Could you talk to him? For us? I have tried. So has Hamid. But all we seem to do is make things worse.”

Wilde sucked at his cheek. Put the bowl of stew down next to him. “I don’t know that I could be any further help, Azu,” he said. “That’s not… the way the two of us work.”

“How do you work, then?”

There was a flash of anger in Wilde’s expression at that, but it was quickly dimmed. “The mission comes first,” he said. “Zolf won’t do anything to endanger it, and that includes… putting himself out of action. He’ll get the job done.”

Azu wanted to shake Wilde in frustration. “The mission can’t be the only thing.”

“It can,” Wilde said, and his voice was firm. “And it is.”

“But then, what happens after? You’ll both… crack yourselves to pieces. There’s no point in saving the world if you can’t live in it afterwards, Wilde.” 

He looked at her then, and for a second his expression was so bleak that she nearly recoiled. She almost thought she’d imagined it, though, when it was blinked away and he arranged a smile. It was a warm smile, and genuine, she thought, although it almost certainly came from a desire to reassure her rather than from any feeling in him.

She swallowed, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. “Please talk to him,” she said. “Maybe it will do both of you some good.”

He picked up his stew again, and sighed. “If it will make you happy, Azu. I’ll have a word when I get a chance.”

She squeezed his arm again. “Thank you.”


	16. A Long Time, A Warm Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamid makes Oscar a coat.

He’s surprised by Hamid’s offer, but also touched, and a little apprehensive after seeing the voluminous offering he’d given to Azu (and the touch of a flush under Azu’s skin and the slight stammer in Hamid’s voice as the gift had been given and accepted had made a part of him buried so deeply yearn and ache almost to the point where he couldn’t ignore it and he had had to turn away sharply, and pretend he had not seen) but he’d said yes even before he’d thought about it and then…

And then…

There had been a coat, that Robbie had given him, oh gods, back in the days of theatre and society and frippery, one that had been lost in the frantic flight from Paris, one that had, somehow, through prestidigitation and rain and elements and fights, kept the smell of him, or perhaps there was something woven into the very fabric of it, some enchantment that kept his memory alive.

He can barely remember Robbie’s face, now. When he lies down to sleep he sees blond hair and a fine web of hateful blue veins, or a furious goblin, sacrificing himself for someone he’d loved, or, more frequently these days, eyes so green and deep they could have been painted with a storm… 

“I would love a coat, Hamid,” Oscar says, and gives him his flawed smile, and Hamid looks taken aback, a little. “If you wouldn’t mind some input into its design?”

Hamid beams. “Truly? You’d like to make it yours, Oscar?”

Oscar has missed Hamid, missed the open delight he takes in things. Remembers that delight as something he used to have, as well. Once upon a time.

“Maybe I can do you a few sketches?”

Hamid grins, and Oscar cannot help but respond in kind.

#

It’s not the same, of course it isn’t, but it’s similar. It fulfills the same function. It smells like Hamid (or perhaps it was never smell, perhaps it was just his imagination, infusing the coat with Robbie’s presence, perhaps it was just association, of the times they’d spent together, of the happiness they’d shared) and it’s fluffy and it’s incongruous and delightful and just that little tiny bit impractical. He pulls it on, burying his face in the fur at its collar and breathing in the scent of it, finding himself smiling to himself without thought to the scar on his face or the shackles on his ankles or the mammoth task ahead of him. 

Zolf finds him like that, with his face half buried in fur and his eyes half closed and once upon a time Oscar would have felt upset that he’d had a private moment like this interrupted but the time when Zolf’s presence had felt anything but welcome had long since past.

“Oh, Hamid made you one too did he?” he says, and Oscar takes one last breath in and straightens, allowing the coat to fall properly around him, like a cape, a cloak, a disguise of sorts. Magic might be denied him but there had been a time, in the dim and distant past, when he had done without it perfectly well.

Zolf’s words had been gruff, but he was looking at Oscar now with a quizzical, wondering expression. “I gave him some pointers,” Oscar says, and Zolf’s expression turns amused, and there is a glint in his green eyes. 

“Did good,” he says, gruffly, and that small acknowledgement, that tiny hint of praise, is worth more to Oscar than a standing ovation at the Theatre Royal.


	17. Have a Piece, Swallow it Whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Hamid and Wilde's conversation about magic on the airship. Spoilers for episode 164. I'm looking at You Ben "Here's my backstory in five words cool fine we never have to talk about this ever again right" Meredith.

Even before it had taken it out of him, to open up, to talk to someone about himself. 

Oh how many people would laugh if he’d said that at the time. “Oscar you speak of  _ nothing  _ but yourself,” they would say, and titter behind their glasses of expensive champagne and he would laugh with them because they were right, of course they were right. He was incapable of talking of anything other than himself, other than the self he presented to them, because everything else…

… well it was classified.

He’d stopped talking about himself, about his work, his hopes, his dreams, decades ago. He’d forgotten how.

So Hamid’s gentle questions, his smiling persistence, his adorable  _ concern  _ should have been easy to deflect.

Except that it wasn’t. Except that they know everything he had been trained to keep secret already and who  _ exactly  _ is he performing for these days? Really?

Not Zolf, who had seen him broken and bleeding and empty.

Not Carter, who had met the man he used to be and then tried to seduce him without realising he was dead and gone with the meritocrats, with Grizzop and Sasha in Rome.

Not Barnes, never Barnes, who would have scoffed at the old Wilde and discounted him.

So why is it still important to pretend with Hamid?

He groans and buries his face in the thin pillow on his cot. Magic. Magic could be the answer. Hamid isn’t using it every few seconds but Wilde knows, Wilde understands what went on in the institute, understands how Hamid pulled them out from Shoin’s clutches, saved their lives with the power he had, all that power, free to use whenever he wanted…

Wilde stuffs the edge of the pillow into his mouth to muffle the scream that wants to escape from his throat. He almost doesn’t hear the knock at the door, but he doesn’t have to. He knows who it is.

“Figured you’d turn up,” he mumbles, not bothering to remove the pillow all the way. Not turning around.

“Saw Hamid leavin’,” Zolf says. “You two have a talk?”

He just nods, knowing that Zolf doesn’t need an answer. “He had questions I guess?”

“A halfling on a quest to understand the world and everything in it,” Wilde says. “And he’s so godsdamned  _ determined.” _

“Enough to drive you mad,” Zolf agrees, and sits on the end of the cot. It’s not big enough for both of them and Wilde religiously ignores the impulse in him to pull Zolf down into his arms anyway.

He’s been resisting that urge for more than a year now. It’s easy enough.

He flops onto his back instead and puts a hand to his face, a little dramatically, sure, but there are some things Zolf expects.

“Did you tell him what happened?”

“Funnily enough, he didn’t ask. Not about that, any way.” He cants his head down to look at Zolf, who looks surprised. “He was more worried about the cuffs than my face, which probably indicates some sort of character growth.”

“He’s grown, sure,” Zolf says. “Dunno if it’s all been good for him, though.”

“You’re just jealous of his adorable, soulful eyes.”

“Shut it, Wilde,” Zolf says, but he can hear the smile in it.

Wilde heaves a breath, then sits up. Zolf shuffles so he can arrange himself next to him on the cot, and they both stare at the door for a long moment.

“Would you have told him, what happened with the scar?”

“If he’d managed to ask directly,” Wilde says. “That would have shown character growth too, you know. Breaking the bonds of propriety.” He grins. “But he couldn’t manage it. He’s far too polite to come out and ask me how I was ruined. That would be terribly gauche, Zolf.”

“You’re not ruined.”

“Tell that to high society. Or what’s left of it.”

“You never cared about them. Not really.”

Wilde turns his head. Zolf’s fists are clenched in his lap and his mouth is set in a hard line. He sees Wilde looking at him and shrugs, eyes slipping away. “No,” Wilde says softly. “But I cared about what they could do for me.”

“Well. If you… if you want me to tell them. You know. What happened? I can do that for you. Cos I get that it… it’s probably hard for you. To talk about. With them.”

Wilde feels his lips twitch. Zolf is so earnest. And he’d do it, no questions. Tell them how he’d found him, bleeding and sobbing on the floor, tell them he’d trusted too easily and for all the wrong reasons. But he’d leave out the true shame. He wouldn’t tell them the curses he’d thrown at Zolf during his week in quarantine, the weaknesses he’d shown when he’d truly believed all was lost. 

Zolf would give them the dry facts and move on. And they’d  _ hate  _ him for it.

“You don’t have to shield me from them,” he says, softly. “If they ask, I’ll tell them.”

“Fine.” Zolf gets up to leave and Wilde reaches up to squeeze his arm. They don’t touch each other often. Habit really. To avoid potential infection. But they’ve been in the air for long enough that Wilde thinks that particular precaution isn’t important any longer.

“Thank you for the offer,” he says, and Zolf nods again, patting Wilde’s hand gently, squeezing it slightly. 

“I’d only make a hash of it if I tried any way,” he says and Wilde laughs.

“Oh you need to give yourself more credit, Zolf.”

Zolf’s eyes twinkle when he smiles back at him and Wilde files that expression away in a file he keeps in the back of his brain, a file marked “for later”. A file marked “for us.”

“Best go keep an eye on our mutineers,” Zolf says and Wilde lets his hand drop and watches him go.


	18. Light A Candle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilde says thankyou to Grizzop and Artemis

He is not one for temples. Or gods. He’ll murmur a prayer to whatever god seems appropriate in the moment, sure, it never hurts to have an actual god on your side but for so many years now he’s been used to having an actual dragon there instead and isn’t that part of the whole insidious web they’ve woven over the world, really?

He doesn’t ask the meritocrats for favors any more.

There’s no temple to Artemis on Okunishima, so he has to bottle it up. Throw a thought to the winds. Maybe Artemis will hear it.

_ She hears it. So does he. _

But in Hiroshima there are temples. They’re not the same as the ones in London or Paris but they serve the same gods and Oscar passes off his list to Zolf and wanders the streets until he finds the familiar moon and arrow motif.

He remembers what it looked like, on Grizzop’s breastplate, and he takes a deep breath and walks inside.

Yes.

There are so many candles already lit. He knows this, intellectually, he knows how many have been lost.

“Anything you need?” the priestess on duty asks, practical and blunt, just like Grizzop always was.

“Just remembering a friend,” he says and she softens a little at that. 

“She guides them on the hunt,” she says. 

Oscar’s lips twist a little. “Or he guides her,” he mutters, as the priestess walks away.

That was almost certainly blasphemous, and as such Oscar almost feels like himself when he steps up to the shrine, candle in hand.

But when he lights it, and sets it in its place, it feels different.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers under his breath, and he thinks at first he’s talking to Grizzop, but this… this is not Grizzop’s place. This is Artemis’.

“I’m sorry I lost him,” he says. “But I suppose that means you have found him.” He blinks. Shakes his head. “And now I suppose I have to be jealous of a goddess. Not something that was ever on my list.”

It’s not much of a prayer. It’s not a prayer at all, really, but Oscar is certain he doesn’t imagine the dark amusement that washes over him, or the prick of something sharp, like tiny goblin claws under his chin, or the fake echo of a voice in his brain.

“You’re an idiot, Wilde,” Grizzop could very well be saying, is probably saying right now.

“I miss you,” he could say, but doesn’t.

“Go save the world you ass,” he could hear, but doesn’t.

Oscar Wilde does not worship a god, but as he leaves the temple, he is grateful.


	19. Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the latest epsiode

There might have been hesitation in that sentence. “We need you alive, alright? None of this… we’re not playing silly buggers alright?”

“I’m not trying to die I’m trying to…” find a reason. Get through this. Slow down. Stop.

_ ...save you.  _ “...Live, Zolf.”

“Good.”

_ Good. _


	20. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble. Inspired by a certain gifset hanging around in certain spots on the internet at the moment.

Forget how they got here. Forget years of almost confessions and lightly brushed fingertips and the weight of responsibility and the fear of rejection. Forget the heaviness of past loves lost and the legacy of misunderstanding.

Forget everything but the feel of skin on skin, the rough glide of fingertips over warmth and sweat and salt, the throb of a pulse against lips, the gentle rise and fall of breath.

“I missed you,” he breathes and it’s a stupid thing to say, they’ve been with each other for years, they’ve been side by side, through everything, and yet -

\- it’s truth.


	21. Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vague timeskip shenanigans.

It wasn’t safe. Of course it wasn’t, but they’d been on the run for upwards of twenty hours, trying to get away from the infected, and this was the first hiding place that at least had a guardable exit, as long as one of them stayed awake.

“You’ve got to sleep,” Zolf said, and Oscar gave him a look that would have been an argument, but Zolf waggled his fingers at him and shook his head, he could, at a pinch, cure fatigue one more time, but it would be useless on Oscar, and Oscar knew it.

The cuffs stayed on, which meant the only way they could keep going, was for them to stop.

Of course, they’d left their supplies, the flight had been too sudden, and so it was just them in their clothes, Zolf with his glaive and his breastplate, and the dusty floor of the warehouse wasn’t conducive to restfulness.

After a few minutes of Oscar tossing and turning to get comfortable, Zolf sighed and shifted along the wall. 

“Here,” he said gruffly, moving close enough to cup his hand under Oscar’s head.

Oscar made a surprised noise and nearly jerked away, until he realised what Zolf was trying to do. 

Even then, he hesitated. “You’re… all right with this, Zolf?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and Oscar shifted upwards so his head was pillowed on Zolf’s thigh. 

It still wasn’t exactly comfortable, and Oscar ended up facing away from Zolf one hand curled around the lower half of his prosthetic leg.

Zolf couldn’t feel that hand, of course he couldn’t, but he also couldn’t help focusing on it, when he really should have been watching the doorway to the warehouse, the windows, the edges of the crates that gave them nominal cover.

Oscar’s breath evened out, but Zolf knew he wasn’t sleeping, not yet. He didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, one of them was tucked next to his hip, the other on the ground near Oscar’s shoulder, but he wasn’t comfortable and he tried not to move, not to disturb the man in his lap but his hip was going numb and he would be useless if someone actually attacked and his legs didn’t respond and so he levered himself a little, with both hands, as gently as possible.

Oscar murmured something and Zolf didn’t think, he reached out with one hand and stroked it over Oscar’s hair, soothing him the same way he would a sick child.

He only realised what he was doing when Oscar went completely still, the hand that was curled over his leg clenching slightly for a second, before relaxing.

Zolf stopped moving, his hand still in Oscar’s hair, breath trapped in his throat.

He could do two things.

Continue what he was doing, feeling the soft strands of Oscar’s hair under his fingers, tease them out and enjoy the texture, feel the weight of Oscar’s head in his lap, watch the elegant curl of his hand on his leg.

Or he could pull back and pretend that he didn’t find comfort in it, connection, purpose.

His fingers trembled for a moment, resting in Oscar’s curls, before he spread them, tucked them under a strand and teased it out, dragged them down to the ends and walked them back up to cradle his skull.

Oscar let out a breath that shuddered slightly, his whole body easing, the hand that had been on his leg creeping up slightly until it was resting on the flesh of Zolf’s knee.

His breath smoothed as Zolf continued to card his fingers through Oscar’s hair, and Zolf knew he wasn’t paying enough attention to his watch, because if he had been he wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint to the second the moment when Oscar fell asleep.

He didn’t stop the gentle movements of his hand, and in the dark and quiet of the warehouse, with nothing but the soft whuff of Oscar’s breath to disturb the silence, he could acknowledge it was as much a comfort for him as it was for the man sleeping, content, relaxed and safe in his lap.


	22. Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilde's cheery mood is infecting Zolf with something else. (spoilers for 169)

It’s bad. Well, it’s not as bad as it COULD be but it’s still bad. He has to do more healing and restoration magic a short amount of time than he had to do through the entire of Shoin’s fucking idiotic dungeon and Hamid-in-Azu is still tripping over his own (her own?) feet and that poor asshole Siggif seems to like crying more in Hamid’s body than Hamid ever did. 

It’s really bad.

And yet, when Wilde catches his eye, Zolf can see a twinkle in it he hasn’t seen for months. Nearly a year, actually. One he hasn’t really seen since they first started working together. Before the bad business with his face. Before the news about Hamid and Sasha got worse. Before they’d been utterly and comprehensively betrayed by the world they were trying to save.

He  _ would  _ find it funny, Zolf supposes. This swapping of souls and bodies. Zolf shudders when he thinks of the possibilities. Not so much because he would hate being someone else. Perhaps it would be nice to be small and dextrous like the kobolds, or tall and tactless like Carter. But he can’t really conceive of what it would be like to have two flesh legs again and he can’t imagine how anyone else would react to being stuck in  _ his  _ body, with all its limitations.

He wonders, for a second, what it would have been like to be swapped with Wilde. To have that height and reach and…

...grace. 

Wilde blithely responds to Earhart’s order to take the helm in a tone of voice Zolf honestly doesn’t think he’s heard since Paris, and his mouth goes dry at how much it makes him  _ ache.  _ What for he can’t exactly place. Is he missing Sasha? Or just the idea of a world that wasn’t a mess? 

Does he miss Wilde?  _ That  _ Wilde? The Wilde he’d wanted to drown? 

Whatever he misses, he can’t stop himself from tapping Wilde on the shoulder. 

“Just don’t push your luck, alright?”

The creases around his eyes, the set of his  _ shoulders  _ are all so much a Wilde Zolf didn’t even know he  _ missed… _

And then he starts to whistle and Zolf actually feels a spring in his step.

There’s a bard spell for that, Zolf knows enough about magic to remember that, but Wilde has anti magic shackles around his ankles and Wilde should  _ not  _ have that amount of power over him.

He has reached up and grabbed Wilde’s collar before he’s even thought about it and he brings him down to his level and is immediately conscious of three things.

Firstly, Wilde looks utterly, completely surprised, and Zolf realises it is the first time he has  _ ever  _ seen that expression on Wilde’s face.

Secondly, Wilde’s breath is warm in the cold air, and his eyes sparkle in the late morning light.

Thirdly, Earhart is directly behind them, and watching.

“It’s nice to see you’ve cheered up,” Zolf says, then lets him go, and takes a second to enjoy the working of Wilde’s mouth, the utter bewilderment in his features, before turning to go to Earhart’s cabin.

There isn’t a spring in his step. Definitely not.


End file.
